


Deed

by batneko



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batneko/pseuds/batneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sort of a headcanon-turned-fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deed

The neighbors could hear them halfway down the block, Stan was sure, although if anyone was still listening they must be a masochist. The same arguments, over and over, week after week, day after day.  It must get dull.

 

He slammed  the door open in time for “We’re better off without you!” to echo across the street, and spun on his heel and spread his arms.

 

“Let it never be said that Stan Pines doesn’t give the people what they want!” Something small hit him in the forehead and he caught it automatically.  A diamond sparkled at him from his palm.

 

The door slammed shut again, and Stan was almost stunned before a new voice entered the fray.

 

“Uh… Stan Pines?”

 

He closed his fingers over the ring and shoved his hands in his pockets.  “Who’s asking?”

 

The man, in a neat blue uniform, held out a clipboard.  “Western Union.  I have a delivery for Stan Pines.  From, um, Stan Pines.”

 

It said a lot for Stan’s state of mind that for a moment that statement didn’t make sense to him either.  Then he shoved his hand out for the clipboard and scrawled a signature across it.

 

The delivery man, to his credit, scampered as soon as the transaction was over.  Stan was left with a thin cardboard envelope and a ring in his pocket.

 

He could still hear banging and the odd swear from inside the house, so he retreated to his car to open it.  The scent of stale fries and burnt rubber (not the tires, the old Stan-Vacs still in the truck) were familiar and soothing as he opened the first correspondence from his brother in… shit, how long  had  it been?

 

Only one piece of paper slid out.  Thick, official-looking seal, and his brother’s best attempt at a fancy signature at the bottom.  The deed to a property at 628 Gopher Road, belonging to one Stanford Pines.

 

Stan sighed heavily.  “Ford, what have you gotten yourself into now?”

 

It was hypocritical, maybe.  They’d both gotten into their fair share of situations as kids, and now… Well, now he had no idea what his brother was up to.  Who his brother was.  It had been so long…

 

The house was quiet.  The violent part of the fight was over.  And if he went back inside, Stan would be welcomed, would be apologized to, would apologize in turn.  It would be all right.  Until it wasn’t.

 

The keys to the Stanleymobile were hidden under the floor mat.  He didn’t have anything but his wallet, some old vacuums, and the deed to a strange address in Oregon.

 

Stan drove straight there, stopping only for naps and gas.

 

***

 

Stan whistled as he got his first sight of his brother’s home.  “What a dump,” he muttered.  “It was a good line.  He’d have to use it when Ford could hear him.

 

It was asymmetric and out of the way, moss growing on the roof, porch supported by cinder blocks.  The whole state smelled, Stan decided.  Like wet leaves and pine and opossums.  He knocked on the door, only half-expecting to be answered, and when he wasn’t simply tried the knob.

 

Unlocked.  It opened halfway, bumped into a stack of boxes, and sent scribbled notes drifting to the floor.

 

“What a dump!” Stan said louder.  “We need to get you a girlfriend, bro.  Or at least a maid.”  He had to turn sideways to get inside, greeted only by dust and silence.  “Ford?”

 

Despite the mess, which had the tell-tale signs of his brother’s mad organizational system, there were clear paths from room to room.  Stan walked between aisles of taxidermy and polaroids and dusty jars until he came to a room with a blue light shining from an open doorway.

 

“Ford?”

 

The door looked strange.  The stairs beyond it were new, compared to the rest of the house, which had a rustic vacation cabin kind of feel.  “If you’re down there, stop whatever creepy experiment you’re doing and come greet your guest.”

 

Of course there was no reply.

 

Stan fished the deed out of his coat.  He hadn’t been thinking much, the last few days, just driving and blasting music and trying not to fall asleep and crash into a semi.  It was still in the envelope, to prevent creases, but Stan had looked at it a few times to make sure he was at the right address.  Now, of course, looking at this crazy cavern full of occult junk, there was no doubt that Stanford lived here.  But why mail a deed?  And to a brother you hadn’t spoken to in years?

 

The knock at the door made him jump, dislodging more dust and paper.  “Ford?” Stan called, one last time, in vain hope.  But he was already heading for the door.

 

A short, round man in an ill-fitting uniform awaited him.  Stan didn’t need to see the badge to hesitate.

 

“Stan Pines?”

 

“Who’s asking?”

 

“Officer Blubs.”  The man pointed at his badge, and Stan squinted at it and mentally repeated the number a few times.  He’d never been able to memorize things the way Ford could, but he could usually hang onto it long enough to write it down.  “Are you Stan Pines?”

 

“What’s it to you?”

 

“Only that, well,” the cop held up a crinkled newspaper.  “You’re supposed to be dead.”

 

Stan felt his knees give out, just in time to grab the doorframe.  His hand shot out without his permission and took the paper.

 

There it was.  In bold capitals.  Stan Pines Dead.

 

“I’m Stan Pines,” he said, not fully understanding the impulse.  “I’m not dead.”

 

No one had ever been able to tell them apart without seeing them side-by-side.  Even though they were fraternal, not identical, twins.  Besides, the look in this cop’s eyes was far from bright.

 

“You got proof of that?”

 

“In my car,” Stan said, distracted.  “Wait.”  He pulled out the deed again, tearing the envelope, the signature bold as day.  “See?  My house.  Not dead.”

 

The cop shrugged.  “Good enough for me.”   
  


Should it really be this easy?  Apparently it was, because he walked toward his squad car with only a “Have a good day” in parting.

 

As soon as he shut the door, Stan let himself collapse.  He read the article, what little there was, over and over until the words blurred.  He could hear his breath, a too-fast huffing that he hadn’t heard since he resolved to stop letting himself get pushed around.  A panic attack at forty.  Pathetic.

 

Stanford  couldn’t be dead.  That… that was absurd.  He was the  smart  one, he was supposed to eat right and live well and outlive his stupid loser brother.  That was how these things worked, right?

 

And anyway, why did he mail Stan the deed?  There must have been a reason.  If he…

 

If he…

 

The cut brakes and odd locating of the car suggest that this was no accident. Says a rookie cop, "Mighty suspicious. Mighty suspicious."

 

No.  Stanford wouldn’t do that to himself.  Which meant outside foul play.  Which meant revenge.

 

Stan headed back to the room with the blue-lit stairs. They led down somewhere, and if Ford had given him this deed, he must have wanted him to come here.  His brother had wanted- ( “We’re better off without you!” ) -wanted him to help, even if it was only to bring someone else to justice.

 

There were odd smudges on the walls.  A handprint. As if in a daze, Stan headed down and down, until he came to an old elevator that wouldn’t open.

 

“What now?” he asked the air.  It was dark down here, nearly pitch-black, the only light leaking from the cracks of what looked like a fuse box.  Stan opened it, and pulled out a lighter to add what minimal visibility he could.

 

Instead of numbers on the buttons, there were odd symbols.  Stan sighed.  “You can’t ever make things easy, can you?”

 

There had to be a clue, if Ford wanted him down here.  There were always clues, even when he didn’t think he’d left them.  Stan had once followed a trail to a buried milk can full of interesting rocks that Ford had buried when they were seven.  But the only thing Stan had was the deed, and that wouldn’t be marked where anyone could see it.  With little other option, Stan took it out of the envelope and held them up to his lighter, to see if there were any small scribbles or hints-

 

Lines appeared on the envelope itself.  Stan nearly laughed.  Invisible ink, triggered by heat.  The oldest trick in the book.

 

He punched in the symbols, the elevator opened, and he went down.

 

It was dark down here too.  Machinery flickered here and there, blue and red LEDs like something out of a movie.  He stumbled around until he found a desk that looked used, a stack of books on top, some scraps of diagrams on the writing surface.  A little cubbyhole contained a few more books, including one Stan almost overlooked until he noticed it looked hand-bound.

 

There was a hand on the cover.  A six-fingered one.  Stan rolled his eyes so hard they hurt.

 

“Did you think no one would know?”

 

Above the desk was a window, but in the dark it looked black as ink.  It wasn’t until Stan found a little reading light that he noticed the reflection, and that something must be beyond it.

 

The scraps of notes on the desk looked like math and theory, but what lay beyond the window was much more than that.  It was… It didn’t look like much of anything, really.  A big triangle with some circles and symbols and lights.  What was science and what was decorative?

 

There was writing among the scraps.  Two hands, maybe three, maybe just Ford after a few too many coffees.  He was writing in code again, but even Stan could decrypt it, after all the years they’d spent together.

 

It took hours. Flipping through the journal, and notes, and books on the desk.  That thing, that machine, was a doorway.  And someone had stepped through.

 

And not come back.

 

There were questions.  Who crashed Ford’s car?  Who’d helped him build this thing?  Why was this journal labeled 1, and how many more were there?

 

And, the only really important one, how could Stan get Ford home?


End file.
